


Guilty

by Posarmeklen



Category: Monkey Dust (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Implied Slash, Mild Blood, Mpreg, References To Pedophilia, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-24 03:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Posarmeklen/pseuds/Posarmeklen
Summary: The Paedofinder General is at the end of his rope.





	Guilty

Six days since they had arrived and seen my shame. I admit that living here for so long has distorted much of my perception of time by now, but I am still aware that it also means six less days of my weak, tender body and six days sooner to the inevitable pain that I cannot see as much more than the final nail in my ruin.

I haven't thought about my being revealed to the others much during the few days past, as the searing embarrassment (more acute than I recall feeling at most other instances in my lifetime) that seized me each time it re-occurred to me earlier must have burnt me out. The superindendent immediately noticed my appearance, and the sloppy imbecile upon his leering spacehopper - even him whose thoughts of me (he is having them of some sort, he must be) are making me shudder - remarked crudely, perhaps not inaccurately, on my plight. I had sliced the former on his arm, blood soaking his sleeve. I intended fully to finish him, too, drawing up my knife and swiping at his neck. But he was quicker than I in the moment and upon running after him and the rest for a few meters my surroundings went dim and I was near collapsing. I was resigned to the event, and returned to solitude once I regained my balance.

I cannot sleep. I am not normally one for unneeded sleeping - resting unnerves me - but now I sense my body shutting down, every bone and muscle begging to be still, and my mind doubly restless and vigilant. Most days, the sunset signals for me to begin to lie haphazardly on the rusty bed that creaks under my weight. Though each night as of late I find myself waking up nearly on the hour in a cold sweat, straining over my own girth as I sit upright and tug my sheets off. My eyes are not as sharp now; I usually squeeze them shut and re-open them to rid them of the hindering bleary sensation. In the corner of my residence I am enveloped in darkness so black I can't know what lies beneath. Figures, perhaps, other people. Perverts. The well-worn window shade rattles against the glass, which I've locked tight, and my breath quickens. Wind comes, along with other ambiguous noises of the woods. I clench my hands by my legs and dig my nails harder into the material of the bedspread. Some occasions I stand, hoisting myself up to meet whichever dusky character the night has conjured (if I remember correctly I have called out once or twice). The origin of these forms remains something unclear to me, but I know for definite that they are here, that they have been. I am most certain. Invariably, I stagger into bed and arrange myself on either of my sides or use the pillows to make for a modified sitting position, closing my eyes once more and willing them not to jump open as an unstoppable deluge of consciousness rolls through; disorganized meanderings all at once concerning coercion and grooming and other hideous things, and I am both incensed and drowsily immobile until slumber takes me.

Amidst this disturbance I still find pleasure in it, wretch that I am. Of course I am already damned for how I have arrived in this situation; who I have lain with and the very state of my body, especially the unavoidable conclusion of it, justify my little excursion and incriminate me indisputably. Mistake not, I have never not been dirty and depraved. It is just now more sickening, more glaringly clear what I am. My condition titillates me as much as it mortifies me. This cursed predicament was what insidiously steered me away from pulling something sharp from my closet and scraping it out myself as soon as I learned why I was so ill many months ago. And I am still ill (no help for my sleeping, I can assure); more than once I've stepped out from the shower to be welcomed by burning pains tearing up my waist and hips. While grasping at my back to alleviate my discomfort, anything for a moment's relief, my eyes meet my own indecent figure in the scratched mirror nailed onto the wall. My midsection (usually shrouded by my robe, even that of which cannot hide me any longer) is disfigured in a way that perhaps suggests I eat far too well, but my skin is stretched thin. If it were thinner, I imagine, it could be translucent. Envisioning then what festers inside and heartbeat growing irregular at the thought of it, my hands travel across the tight and hard flesh, stroking the smooth underside of the curve. No, I musn't - I jolt my fingers away and swallow my satisfaction. All hours of the day and night I am utterly aware of its presence under my skin, at times caressing and prodding at my innards and in other moments offering up a sweet stab of agony in a sensitive spot. I sit with it constantly, fervently considering what it will grow into, what it could be, with my body at its mercy and my being set to force it out from between my legs at the finish. Oh, how defiled am I. In my more desperate moments, I have ran off to a private place (even in my isolation) and relieved myself, rushing open my magazines for gratifying headlines and visuals and fumbling with my middle in the process. After which I am exhausted and heavy and so very filthy.

Recently, I've wondered often about my death as the culmination of all this. It has surely happened before, and with my seclusion and advancement in years for such a physical event it may very well be a distinct possibility. Can I wait until then? Either way, I cannot fool myself into believing dying with dignity is any longer an option. I had brought a knife when I left, one with a wooden handle and elongated blade, for condemnation of the perverted. It wasn't meant for myself, but it would be so simple. Perhaps it isn't the fastest way to get the job done, though I haven't a tool to complete it instantly, and the fantasies eagerly find me with alarming frequency these days. Not that I am surprised. I have intermittently entertained the idea - I detest debauchery in all its forms, and have rarely found reason not to hang up my hat and deal with myself accordingly. Already I can see the lethal red juxtaposed with the green of my flesh. Blood draining steadily until I lose consciousness and take the bastard sprog with me. My duties are far away now. I anxiously consider them, but my resolve battles for attention with my dishonor. I am so tired.

Tonight I sleep with my knife at the edge of the bed.


End file.
